Picking up the Remains
by phoenix-dogs
Summary: Kristoph Gavin - picking up the pieces of a broken family and trying to piece them together, or picking up the strings and becoming puppeteer?
1. Prologue

Kristoph had been twenty-one when they moved to America. Poor Klavier was only fourteen, bright eyes crying for the friends he never got to say goodbye to. He'd cried loudly on the flight over until Papa had scolded him, telling him men don't cry and he'd never make it anywhere. Despite Klavier quieting down, it just made him cry more. Kristoph felt sadder than he ever had before; he'd never be able to see Mama's grave again, he'd be learning a new language, and he'd be on the run.

Papa had narrowly escaped the authorities in Germany, and despite Kristoph and Klavier both being aware of their father's illegal activities, they never thought they'd have to leave behind the people and country they loved for it. Papa had simply said that he had connections in California and business would be good there, so that was where they were going. Kristoph could finish his last year of college and Klavier would finish out public school. Papa could continue business and Kristoph would inherit everything once Papa retired. Papa hadn't gone to college because Opa had died when Papa was 17. Papa always spoke of Opa lovingly, but Kristoph always seemed to notice his muscles tense up when Papa's father was mentioned. Maybe it had something to do with the scars on Papa's back Kristoph had noticed when Papa still had the time to take Kristoph to the lake for a swim on hot summer days. The tan skin covered in thick blond hairs contrasted against the scars, hairless and pale. Kristoph had never imagined a hulking man like Papa, thick mustache and neatly parted hair, could ever have let someone put scars on him. But there they were, peeking out at Kristoph when they would take a day to swim at the lake. Those days were gone when Klavier arrived and Mama died.

As Kristoph laid back in his seat and closed his eyes, listening to Klavier sniffle, he wondered what would become of all of Mama's clothes that Papa had kept. He remembered one Friday night while he was still in high school, when Kristoph had gone out with friends and come home earlier than expected he witnessed Papa crying alone in his bedroom, wearing nothing but his underwear and a long string of Mama's pearls. Papa had spanked Kristoph for the first time since Kristoph had run out into a busy street at nine years old. Kristoph wondered if Papa had really meant it when he said he'd use the metal end of the belt next time if Klavier learned of it (_was it because men do not cry?_). Kristoph wondered if Mama ever asked about Papa's scars.

Those weren't things Kristoph had wanted to focus on, though. He noticed Klavier was snoring softly now, and Papa was silently staring out of the window. Closing his eyes, Kristoph felt safe now, knowing that by adopting a different name and moving home he could make sure Klavier didn't have to move countries to assure himself his children would be safe and that Papa could retire quietly and peacefully. The rhythm of Klavier's soft breathing led Kristoph into a shallow sleep.

The small house was in a small neighborhood and had small bedrooms with small beds and a small kitchen and a small boy and a large boy and a large man. Papa had some "friends" who were solemn and grumbling in a foreign tongue Kristoph could barely understand while Papa jittered away with a few fleeting words making sense, his deep voice scratching at the bottom of his throat while these Americans seemed to speak from the very tip of their tongue. It made no sense to Kristoph but at the very least he could tell Klavier that the _Kühlschrank _was called a refrigerator in English, and they would be sleeping in a bedroom, and they called Papa "Mister Gavin" instead of "Herr Goldstein," and someday Klavier would be "Mister Gavin" just like Kristoph would also be "Mister Gavin." Klavier began to cry again, and when Papa gave Kristoph a quick icy glare he'd ushered Klavier upstairs, trying to calm him by saying, "_Klavier, wählen Sie ein Schlafzimmer._ Klavier, choose a bedroom."

Klavier had simply slid down the wall to sit in the narrow upstairs hallway, crying so hard his mouth gaped open and his gut was sucked in with a need for oxygen. As he began to curl in on himself, Kristoph picked him up by the collar of the band t-shirt Klavier was still wearing and slapped him. _Hard._ He hissed into Klavier's ear, "Enough of this self pity, _Bruder_. Your life hasn't begun yet, so you will pick yourself up and move on just like the rest of us will. Papa has to keep a strong face around us but he misses Mama very much. How do you think he feels about having to move? About discarding Opa's name?" Kristoph shook Klavier and Klavier only whimpered softly, the right side of his face red and warm. A few more tears welled up in those bright eyes and Kristoph hissed again, "Enough of this self pity. Now get in a room and compose yourself before showing your face to Papa or myself again." With that, Kristoph let go of Klavier and Klavier scampered off into one of the doors.

They didn't see Klavier until the next morning.

* * *

**A/N:** This came about due to some musing by myself about how exactly Kristoph got his scar, and it's leading into a monster of a story that I'm going to attempt to write. You could also probably consider it a mafia AU but I'm still trying to fit it neatly into canon. Reviews are appreciated, but not necessary. Thanks for reading the prologue!


	2. Chapter 1

After May ended, Kristoph found himself enrolling in classes at a local law school. Klavier had just finished his freshman year at Themis Legal Academy where he learned a considerable amount of English from his friend, a boy named Daryan who was just as into music as Klavier was, and also studying the Prosecutor course. Klavier hung out with Daryan as much as he could; these hours had just increased as school had been let out for summer vacation. Kristoph had remembered being unimpressed the first time Daryan had slept over and had dinner with their father. There was just something about that boy - was it the way his eyes shifted around when he was nervous? Or was it the long unkempt hair or the way he spoke of witchcraft like totems and rituals? Daryan had explained that he was a Shoshone Native American and had been on a reservation until he was 11. After that, his family had moved out to California so that Daryan could meet more kids from more cultures and experience other things in life. From there, Daryan said he'd fallen in love with AC/DC and his totem animal, the great white shark.

Of course, Kristoph had understood little because of how foreign the English words sounded and stringing them together in fast-paced rhythm didn't help. Papa had, though. Kristoph knew that all he needed was Papa to explain that the boy was full of witchcraft to know that Daryan wasn't approved of in the newly-Christened Gavin household.

Unfortunately, it seemed Klavier was not all that adept at making friends. So, throughout the summer, the two learned guitar together and from each other. Papa would come home smelling of cigar smoke and gunpowder, sometimes well after midnight when the food Kristoph had made for Papa was still sitting cold on the kitchen table. And Kristoph studied English as hard as he could, hoping to speak one conversation in English a day, whether it was with the grocery clerk or Klavier. There were times he felt silly and other times he felt like a disgrace, but every day he spoke and every day he improved. And in one year he should be able to get his law degree and take the bar exam - of course, it was odd to be in class with adults far older than Kristoph and see them straining on concepts that he'd grasped three years ago back in Germany. The only roadblock Kristoph had on understanding the classes he'd sat in was the fact that the English was hard to understand and his mind was reeling to translate it fast enough. But once he was actually enrolled he'd be able to sit down with the text books and work out what he needed to.

Kristoph wanted to be a defense attorney. Well, not _exactly_. Papa had wanted a lawyer in the family to get his friends off of the hook and to look neat and presentable to anyone who asked. It was going to be Klavier because Klavier had expressed an interest in right and wrong as a child, but Kristoph didn't want that. By any means possible, Kristoph didn't want that. He didn't want Klavier coming home at 3 a.m. smelling like cigar smoke and gunpowder and covered in blood that wasn't his own. Kristoph _couldn't_ let that happen.

So Kristoph was the lawyer instead. He gave up freedom to choose what he wanted in order to protect Klavier. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all. Lawyers make good money, don't they? And he could protect his friends. It's not like he'd known what he'd wanted to be in the first place.

Life changed in mid-July when Kristoph was at home, tucked away at the small desk in his small room. At Daryan's, Klavier wasn't able to interrupt Kristoph's thorough English studies, wasn't able to hear Kristoph try to speak and enunciate like an American would, wasn't able to hear Kristoph's generic ringtone chime off, startling him. The screen blinked: 11:07 P.M. UNKNOWN NUMBER CALLING. The only worry Kristoph had was remembering his English.

"Hello?"

"Kristoph!" It was Papa began shooting off in rapid fire German, "Kristoph, one of my boys was a mole, I'm in police custody."

"Papa, calm down! Speak slowly." Kristoph paused, gathering his own panic inside of himself and trying to toss it out the window. "Why are you in police custody?"

"They've been watching me this whole time, seeing my activities with the other members of the family around here, taking note and finally jumping when my guard was down. They saw me going in to collect from over a dozen people we were running the protection scam on."

What Kristoph heard next was something he had never wanted to hear, not again, not after seeing Papa alone with Mama's pearls. _Papa was crying._ Kristoph knew the situation was dire, but now, now he didn't have the stomach to say anything else. Not until he heard what Papa had to say.

"Kristoph, my precious boy, they're deporting me so that they can prosecute me in Germany."

Kristoph stood up and began pulling on pants and a jacket, asking, "Papa, where are you? Where are you being kept at?"

Papa was silent. Kristoph heard muffled yelling in American accents. Kristoph repeated his questions frantically, shrieking at Papa. Papa finally sniffed and said, "I don't want you or Klavier to see me like this. Once the boys find everything's safe they'll go to you and get you set up. You'll be alright, Kristoph. I love you, my son." And with that, Papa had hung up.

Kristoph was furious. He kicked his desk and yelled profanities at it. He had a complete meltdown, tearing at his own hair and tossing his glasses away so he didn't crush them in anger. After a few minutes of mindless shrieking and screaming, he sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at his blank walls. They were still that ugly beige color they'd been since they arrived. He took a deep breath in, letting it out as a long sigh. Would he not let Klavier know for a few days? Should he take the time Papa could afford him to think things through, or should he tell Klavier immediately?

It was then that Kristoph remembered Papa telling him about the witchcraft in Daryan. Kristoph remembered the hatred he felt for that odd boy who was teaching his brother odd things. He could bring Klavier home. He could make Klavier obey him.

He picked up his phone and dialed Klavier's number.

Klavier was listening intently to Daryan talk about being with some girl at school and how he was staring at her boobs or something when his phone began to vibrate madly in his back pocket. Pulling it out and seeing it was his brother, in his stilted and pausing English, he hushed Daryan, saying, "My brother is calling." Daryan nodded and sat back, smiling to the memory of a girl he'd stared at until she was so uncomfortable she'd moved seats on the bus.

"_Hallo, bruder._"

Daryan watched Klavier's face drop immediately. After a few minutes of German gibbering, Daryan able to pick up a few words here and there that he'd learned from Klavier, the phone call ended. Eyes distant, sweat beginning to bead, and a frightened expression on the fourteen year old's face, Klavier simply whispered, "I have to return home. Something bad has happened."

As Klavier stood up Daryan went with him, following him out of the bedroom, asking, "C'mon, can't you tell me?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow. I will talk to you at school." Klavier shut the front door and jogged over to his bike, which he swiftly mounted and began pedaling furiously. The humidity was beginning to settle and the only relief he got was the wind against his face if he pedaled fast enough. He was panting within five minutes, gasping for oxygen that wasn't there in its usual density. Sweating profusely, Klavier's skin felt icky and moist but he didn't have time to worry about that.

When he arrived home a car that did not belong to Papa was parked out front. Kristoph, wearing a pair of tattered old jeans that hung loosely and a gray sweatshirt, could be seen speaking with a short round man in a business suit inside. Klavier locked his bike up on the side of the house and entered to hear a conversation he never could have imagined.

"- so they've got your pops locked up real tight in the jailhouse next county over. You understandin' me, Kristoph?"

The man reminded Klavier of a small talking sausage. His skin was a tanner shade of greasy brown, but not dark like the black kids at school. He had a thinning head of what looked like what used to be thick, dark brown hairs, curling out from under a dark fedora. His short stubby fingers looked like they should belong to a butcher, and the accent was unfamiliar to Klavier. The man smelled of cigar smoke like Papa had, but ten times worse. This man, with his short snobbish nose and constantly moving fingers must have actually smoked them. It was confirmed once Klavier heard the man cough after his question - a freight train in the kitchen had gone off, it had seemed.

Kristoph's English was worse than Klavier's, but he had a better time of not sounding like his mouth was full of marbles. In a deep, softly booming reply, Klavier spoke, "Father is being moved, correct?" Upon hearing Klavier enter, Kristoph looked up and spoke briefly to Klavier in German. "This is Mr. Gambino. He's going to take care of us now that Papa is being deported. He's getting us all of Papa's money, his car, he'll be able to get me a driver's license and job." He forced a small, polite smile at Mr. Gambino. "Klavier, who is my brother," he announced in English, gesturing towards Klavier.

Klavier stood dumbly for a second before talking to Kristoph in German, "Kristoph, you don't know anything about driving a car. How are they going to get you a license? Where will you be working?"

Kristoph frowned and the features of his face seemed to age twenty-fold, the anger seeping out in small quantities as it usually did. "Klavier," he replied, "it doesn't matter about driving. I will be driving because I must drive. There's no question to it. As for work," he smiled a fake smile at Mr. Gambino and transitioned to English, "Mr. Gambino will let me work. I will work for you, correct?"

The stubby little man, lines around his face becoming prominent as he smiled, replied loudly, "Yes, you will! Augustus said you were involved in some of the legwork over in Germany, right?"

Kristoph's eyebrows furrowed. "Leg… work?"

Klavier shot off in German, "He means all of times you went in with Papa to collect money and the meetings you got to sit in on. 'Legwork' is similar to small tasks given to you where you move around and do things up on your feet."

Kristoph slowly stood to his feet and smacked Klavier hard across the face. He stated in a calm but strong voice, "You will not disrespect me! Papa is being held by international police and the chances are very slim for him coming home to us, and until then, I am the head of the house. I am the one who cooks your meals. I am the one who pays our bills. I am now the one who you must give respect to, and if you should continue disrespecting me I should continue hitting you. Do you understand me, Klavier?"

Klavier swallowed the lump in his throat and replied quietly, "_Ja._"

In a falsely cheerful voice, Kristoph said in English, "Now go and wash for bedtime."

As Klavier turned to head up the stairs by the front of the house, he mumbled to himself, "_Ja, Kapitän._"

"What was that?" Kristoph called out.

"Nothing, my dear brother," Klavier replied airily. As he stomped up the stairs he heard fragments of Kristoph apologizing for his brother's behavior in stunted English. Klavier had noticed the apathetic expression Mr. Gambino had worn and been disgusted.


	3. Chapter 2

The next day was rough for Klavier. Daryan had hounded him about what had happened first thing in the morning and all of the details and why Klavier had a big bruise that was beginning to turn purple on his cheek. When Klavier told him about his father's incarceration, Daryan had nearly fallen out of his seat, hissing back, "_What?! Really?!_" He'd smiled as if it was cool, like it made Klavier a part of some awesome story, the son of a mobster who'd be able to escape prison somehow. Right? He'd escape, wouldn't he?

The truth was that Klavier had always known that his father didn't love him as much as he loved Kristoph, and yet he still wanted Papa back at home. Papa had never taken Klavier anywhere, done anything with him, but when he was younger, he remembered Kristoph asking why Papa never went to the pool with him anymore. Klavier remembered Papa saying that he was busy with work now that Mama was gone. Kristoph was the one who always did the work that Mama used to - Klavier had finally come to the realization that it was his own fault, that Papa looked down on him with anger for killing Mama in childbirth. Klavier had always hoped he'd have the opportunity to make it up to Papa, but now that he was gone, he felt incredibly empty. It was like there was no way for him to win, not anymore. He'd be left with these feelings to not being good enough for the rest of his life, wouldn't he?

He rubbed his cheek and wished he had the words to tell Daryan everything. He wondered if he'd actually tell him if he knew the words.

* * *

It was two weeks before Kristoph could go and visit Papa. The jailhouse was white and smelled like bleach - it unnerved Kristoph. Hearing some of the shouting and cursing, he was glad he didn't bring Klavier. Instead, he was with Mr. Gambino, who shuffled along silently behind him. When he got closer, it was like a cloud of cigar smoke would strike Kristoph in the face, but he never let it show. Politeness was important when dealing with people who were helping you.

The officer led them into the visitor's center, a dark little cubbyhole with one folding chair on their side of the glass - a room containing several large lights that set an artificial mood into place, another folding chair, a security camera, and one bored guard was on the other side of the glass. Mr. Gambino let Kristoph sit in the folding chair with an emphatic smile.

After a few minutes of tense chattering between the two about life at home, Augustus Goldstein entered in a prison uniform that hung loosely from his broad frame. Kristoph noticed that the beer belly Papa had begun to develop had quickly shrunken, and a part of him seemed broken. Dark circles hung like half-moons under his dark eyes. Papa refused to look at Kristoph as he sat with a curt drop. He was shocked at how poorly Papa looked - they'd told him that Papa would be treated better if he confessed, and it would go along better considering the amount of evidence they had against him. That and Mr. Gambino made it apparent that life would be hell for Kristoph and Klavier if Papa tried to fight against it.

Kristoph's features softened as he asked quietly in German, "Papa, how's your back?"

Papa sighed and stared at the wall behind Kristoph, rubbing the stubble that was developing on his chin. "The beds are hard and I can't ever get comfortable. I feel like I've been sitting on rock for… what is it now? Two weeks?"

Kristoph nodded. "_Ja._"

Papa leaned forward on his elbows, covering his face as he muttered, exasperated, "_Lieber Gott._"

Mr. Gambino piped up. "How about we speak in a manner that everyone here can understand, huh?" He leaned an elbow against the chair Kristoph sat in, the cloud of cigar smoke smothering him as Mr. Gambino continued to speak. "We're here to discuss what you want Kristoph doing from now on now that you're headed back home. Not schnitzel." As he laughed, and eventually began into a rolling coughing fit, Kristoph felt his eyes deaden as the stereotype rolled off the fat man's tongue.

When Mr. Gambino had recovered, he said, "Now, Augustus, don't look at me so seriously. You know that I jest."

Glancing up, Kristoph saw just what Mr. Gambino was talking about: Papa looked like he would have choked the lights out of Mr. Gambino if a sheet of glass wasn't separating them. The little rat deserved it, but Kristoph took a deep breath and composed himself, thinking of the English words he needed. "I will be continuing work as an attorney, Papa?"

Papa turned around to glance at the guard and the security camera. The guard kept one leery eye on the conversation, but had his head down.

Papa began to speak rapidly in German under his breath. "There's money to be had in the business I do and it's no different than scaring a few hens into dropping eggs. Let Klavier do all of the legal work -"

"You know I won't do that, Papa," Kristoph hissed back. "I'm going to be an attorney and Klavier will have his own life. I'll still work within it and it'll be neater."

"They're going to ask you for things and you need to give it to them, Kristoph!" Papa had a serious look about him, staring directly into Kristoph's eyes. "You _must_ give it to them!"

Mr. Gambino interjected, "You're telling him that he's got a job with his friends, right?"

Papa smiled a large smile, one that Kristoph knew was as fake as fake could be. In English, "Of course!" He looked back at Kristoph with a smile. "Mr. Gambino works with a finance company and will want your help."

Kristoph glanced from the guard to his father to Mr. Gambino and he knew there was something he was missing. Slowly, he replied in English, "I will enjoy working with Mr. Gambino."

For a few tense moments, everyone was silent. Eventually, Kristoph cleared his throat and Mr. Gambino spoke up. "Been seein' a lot more of Klavier now that you're outta the house. I think the kid misses you, Augustus."

Papa's expression soured. He pursed his lips and sat back, crossing his arms and glancing away. "At least he's not with that little devil. Such a sad thing, a young boy with so much witchcraft in him." Then he glanced over to Kristoph and a small smile crossed his face. "Of course, that's probably thanks to my Kristoph. You're home much more than I am. You pull what good you can out of this - get Klavier away from that demon and set him back onto a righteous path."

Kristoph nodded. "I will, Papa. Honoring family is most important, is it not?"

"Attaboy!" Mr. Gambino clapped Kristoph on the bag and laughed loudly. "I could drink to that!"

Kristoph chuckled nervously. Then, in his faltering English, he said, "We need to leave. Klavier sends love."

Papa leaned forward. "But what about you, Kristoph? Are you alright?"

"It's just like it was for the most part with Klavier. Now I just have less time to study English."

"No, Kristoph." He began to speak tenderly in German, "I will be deported within the week, most likely. They want to make the process quick. Are you doing alright at home? I know my loving son always puts on a good face for his father and his little brother, but please, tell me the honest truth before you go. Tell me how you're feeling right now."

Kristoph took a deep breath, his eyebrows furrowing as he tried to think about how to describe how he was feeling accurately. "I feel a constant roaring in the back of my head and my stomach does flips. I'm worried about you, Papa. I'm worried about Klavier. I worry that I'm not what this family needs."

Papa smiled a sad smile, little wrinkles glimmering around his eyes. "You'll do wonderful, Kristoph. I'll write to you while I'm in prison over in Germany. I'll help you do what I can. You just have to keep your head above water and do what I told you, do you understand?"

Kristoph nodded. "I understand, Papa."

They all said their goodbyes and Kristoph watched his father be led out and began to put a dampener on his own emotions. Control was everything he needed. As he sat in the passenger seat of Mr. Gambino's ratty little car and watched him light a fat cigar, he knew that this control was how he would get through this.

"Hey, kiddo, wanna grab a drink?"

Kristoph leered at Mr. Gambino from the corner of his eye. "Are you referring to alcoholic beverages?"

Mr. Gambino smiled and shook off the ash from the end of his cigar into the ash tray. "Yeah. We got some bars, it don't matter if you're under age or whatever if that's what you're worried about. We got some business to go over. You know poker?"

"Uh…" Kristoph took a minute to process everything and replied quietly, "What will poker have to do with my work?"

Mr. Gambino laughed. "It's alright, I'll show you."

The next ten minutes went by in silence, besides the occasional freight-train cough from Mr. Gambino. Kristoph wanted nothing more than to stick his head out the window like a dog, but instead suffered silently, doing his best to suppress any coughs that arose. After a few minutes of watching trees pass by, it transitioned into gray buildings. Eventually the constant motion made him begin to feel lightheaded and nauseous, so he sat back to stare at his feet.

The carpet in Mr. Gambino's car was probably originally a beige color, the kind that was typical in little sedans of that model. This one, unsurprisingly, had carpets the color of dust and the smell of cigars that would probably be there till the end of time. Kristoph imagined someone in a garbage dump years and years from now, dumping in coffee grinds and banana peels and bits and pieces of this carpet and choking on the scent of cigars. A throbbing headache suppressed a small chuckle.

When the car ride was over, Kristoph found himself outside of a dingy little hole in the wall with a neon sign in the front door flashing, "Jacks' Place!" A small leprechaun with a merry smile blinked wildly. Kristoph squinted and stepped out of the car, the fresh air doing wonders for his pounding head.

The bar was dimly lit, the inner walls dark brick that matched the brick on the outside of the building. A few pieces of cheesy sports memorabilia created black holes on the walls, contrasting against one flatscreen in the back corner. One old man, haggard and tired with a beer in his hand, sat staring at it, not flinching when the bell chimed to let the bartender know of Kristoph and Mr. Gambino's arrival. The bartender himself was a black man in a black t-shirt and pants, a black apron draped across a muscled figure. Upon their entrance, the man set down the glass and smiled, saying, "Hey, Roger! What can I get for you and your friend?"

Mr. Gambino smirked and leaned his stance back, pushing his chest forward. "Whatever Mr. Gavin here wants, you hear?"

Kristoph glanced from the bartender to Mr. Gambino, thinking about the name in English. "I am unsure of what to say it is."

The bartender raised his eyebrows and hummed in thought for a second before saying, "I'll list everything out to you." Pointing to one section full of clear bottles of clear alcohol, he said, "Vodka." Yellowed glass bottles: "Whiskey and bourbon." Another section of varying bottles, "Rum." Returning to the spot at the bar where Kristoph and Mr. Gambino stood, he explained, "There's also beer. I can make margaritas, which are sour and fruity. A screwdriver is orange juice and vodka, there's blood marys which are tomato juice and vodka along with some other spices, and there's long island iced teas which are made up of a bunch of different kinds of alcohol. Drink enough of 'em and they'll knock you flat on your ass, man." With a grin, he leaned back and set his hands on the bar. "So, what can I do you for, Mr. Gavin?"

Kristoph took a few moments to decide before saying, "I have never had a long island iced tea…" The accent came out on the unfamiliar grouping of words. "I will drink one of the long island iced teas."

Reaching up from underneath Kristoph's towering height, Mr. Gambino slapped a twenty down on the counter and said, "Make it two, Ray!"

Ray grinned and picked up two glasses, saying, "I'm on it, Roger."

After a few minutes of Kristoph watching bottles clink around, two glasses of what looked like innocent iced tea were placed in front of the two men. Mr. Gambino slapped Kristoph on the back and said, "Drink up, Kristoph."

Kristoph hesitantly picked up the glass and inspected it. He took one sip and found a burst of citrus on his tongue. Puzzled, he smiled and said, "It tastes like fruit."

Mr. Gambino slapped Kristoph on the back again, saying, "Attaboy!" Turning his attention to Ray, he asked, "Hey, Ray, you gotta deck we could borrow? We gonna talk business over a game of poker in the back room."

Ray's smiled dampened a bit, down to a polite and understanding smile. He pulled a deck up from behind the bar and said, "It's always open to you when you need it, Roger. If you need me, I'll be here." He immediately began cleaning glasses again, the smile gone.

The two shuffled towards the back with their drinks, where Mr. Gambino pushed open a door to reveal what was indeed a small back room, with one little table and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He pulled the cord to turn it on before closing the door. The red box sat simply on the little table, and Kristoph stared blankly. Mr. Gambino locked the door handle before sitting down on the far end of the table, squished up against the back wall. Kristoph sat down across from him, watching Mr. Gambino's hands as he shuffled the deck and dealt their hands. Afterwards, he stood once more to grab some poker chips from a little shoebox in the corner of the room.

After starting off, Mr. Gambino says, "We'll get you a gun. We run protection routes every day of the week, but your old man took off weekends to run numbers with me and Johnny - you'll meet Johnny."

To start off a conversation with the fact that Kristoph would need a gun as if it was nothing shocked the young man. He took one sip from his glass and continued staring at his cards, nodding. "That is just fine."

After a while of talking about times and places and a terrible game from Kristoph, Mr. Gambino stood up, saying simply, "I needa take a piss." Glancing down at Kristoph's glass, he said, "You're dry, Kristoph. I'll get you another."

Kristoph set down his hand, objecting. "No, no, I do not need to be drinking alcohol at an hour like this. I still have to return home and care for Klavier! I am fine, really."

The greasy mobster refused to listen - he grabbed up Kristoph's glass and went back out into the main bar area, claiming, "You been through a lot today, Kristoph. You deserve some drinks. Now don't look at my hand you sly dog!" And with a chuckle, he was gone.

Kristoph sat in silence. His head was already swimming. Alcohol had never been good in his system. He could also blame it on why he was playing so poorly.

He felt like it must have been at least ten minutes of him staring at the wall before Mr. Gambino came back with another long island iced tea in hand. Kristoph took one polite sip and noticed a new bitter flavor. His eyebrows drew together in confusion. Mr. Gambino said nothing and only had to place his bet before Kristoph found his eyes rolling in his head as he tried to focus on his cards. Widening his eyes and cleaning his glasses didn't help anything.

"I see my concoction's kicked in, huh, Mr. Gavin?" Mr. Gambino had a grave look on his face, eyebrows sagging and his little lips pulled into a scowl.

Kristoph set his hand down and leaned back in his chair, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. "What did you…" He tried to go into German but stopped himself. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "What did you put into my beverage?"

Mr. Gambino leaned forward, lacing his stubby sausage fingers together in front of him. "Don't matter, kiddo. It'll be out of your system in a few hours. What does matter is that you're completely honest with me, and I've found that when someone's a lil souped up it helps with being honest."

Kristoph felt his tongue lolling around in his mouth as he tried to reply, but just odd noises came out.

"Kristoph, you gotta try harder than that." After a curt rap at the door, Mr. Gambino stood up and let in a thuggish man of extreme build. "I told you you'd meet Johnny. Johnny, this is Kristoph, Augustus's son."

Johnny nodded towards Kristoph. Kristoph squinted, wondering why Johnny had three heads.

Mr. Gambino sat down across from Kristoph again. "Kristoph, tell me, would you kill a woman whose husband wasn't paying his dues?"

Kristoph leaned forward. "Why would I kill someone?"

Mr. Gambino replied, "Wrong answer, Kristoph."


	4. Chapter 3

It was eight o'clock. Klavier had been waiting around for Kristoph since four, going back and forth to destinations on his bike. There had been a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread from the grocery store, two coats from the dry cleaners, and Klavier had taken what was left of the money Kristoph had given him and bought a container of trail mix and a Pepsi from the convenience store around the corner. After finishing the Pepsi and plowing through half of the trail mix, it was five, and he knew something was wrong. There was no way an excursion with Mr. Gambino could take this long, neither Kristoph or Klavier found Mr. Gambino interesting enough to withstand for three hours.

He tried to call Kristoph. Standing in the front room, anxiously switching from looking out the window to the modest television perched across from their dusty old couch. The line rang a few times and then went into voicemail. Klavier sighed and ran a finger through his hair, crashing down onto the sofa. His whole body was buzzing in frustration and anxiety; he felt like his clothes were all too tight and he was being choked by his shirt collar even though it was just an old t-shirt and jeans.

Just at that moment, he heard wheels rolling into the driveway. Relieved, his head popped up to stare out the window.

Another pang of panic ran down his spine as Kristoph got out of the passenger side of Mr. Gambino's car. Dried blood caked his face, down his nose and out of his mouth. One of his eyes was swelling and there were a few specks of blood on his nice clothes, but Kristoph made no move to cover it. In fact, Kristoph, seemed to be walking funny - he had to lean on Mr. Gambino to make it into the house.

Once he was in, Klavier shut the door behind them. As Mr. Gambino walked Kristoph into the kitchen, Klavier asked in German, "Kristoph, what happened to you? Why are you covered in blood? Why are you walking funny?"

Klavier was astonished to see Kristoph sitting back in the chair, eyes shut, grumbling but not really saying anything back to him. It was the first time in a long time Kristoph had nothing to say to Klavier. So, instead, he turned to Mr. Gambino and asked the same of him.

Mr. Gambino was covered in little beads of sweat and breathing hard - he was nearly a foot shorter than Kristoph and in not nearly as good a shape. He replied breathlessly, "We went to one o' tha bars our group owns. We had a few drinks and someone approached us. Gawd, he was enormous! He picked a fight wit' yer brotha. Kristoph got so angry, the man kept calling him a nazi 'er somethin'!"

It didn't make sense to Klavier. Kristoph would never get into a fight with someone, especially not with Mr. Gambino, who was now probably his boss, there. He expressed his concern. "I've never seen my brother in a fight before. He doesn't fight."

Mr. Gambino, unflinchingly, replied, "Well, ya eva' seen 'im drunk?"

Klavier frowned and turned to his brother. "I will clean him. Good night, Mr. Gambino."

The short man nodded and left, the front door closing quietly behind him.

Klavier watched as he climbed into his crappy little car, turned on his headlights, and drove off into the twilight. Turning back to Kristoph, he noticed that Kristoph's glasses were intact despite the fact that his face seemed to have gotten the majority of the pummeling. Kristoph continued to babble quietly, his tongue rolling around in his mouth. Klavier asked, "What happened to you, Kristoph?" When Kristoph didn't respond, his eyes out in space, Klavier grabbed Kristoph's cheeks, pulling his face to face his own. Stronger, with eyes flaming with questions that demanded answers, he asked again, "What happened, Kristoph?" Kristoph looked at Klavier for the first time, and Klavier continued. "I know you didn't get into a fight, brother. I know you don't fight. I know you don't feel much of anything. So tell me, why is your eye bruising but your glasses unharmed?"

Fingers digging into Kristoph's square jaw, the one eye was wasn't bloodied stared at Klavier. It was the color of the sky on a snowy winter morning, and it sent shivers down Klavier's back. Kristoph began to laugh, a chuckle deep in the back of his throat, quiet, and then louder. The blood on his teeth stood out, red on white, and he replied back, "I was learning how things are. Don't worry, Klavier. It's alright. Everything will be alright. I'll save you."

Klavier's eyebrows furrowed. "Kristoph," he spoke, "I don't need saving."

Kristoph snorted, and Klavier let go of his face. Kristoph's head lolled back and he continued chuckling. Klavier wetted a rag and began cleaning blood off of his brother. Once he was blood-free, Klavier got him into bed. Locking the doors and turning out the lights, he went into his bedroom as well, despite it only being 9 o'clock.

Climbing onto his bed, he whipped out his phone and began texting Daryan. He couldn't let this go untold.

_Klavier: u know how my brother had business 2day?_

A few seconds later, his phone vibrated.

_Daryan: Nobody texts like that, Klav. And yes, I did. Did something happen? Did he hit you again?_

_Klavier:_ _oh ok. and no, he didn't. he got beat up real bad. mister gambino said they were at a bar that belonged to their organization and that somebody picked a fight with him. he said kristoph was drunk and that's why it managed to get so far along. my brother doesn't fight anyone. he doesn't get emotional. sometimes I think he's a robot, lol. but the issue is that he had a really bad black eye but his glasses were completely intact. should his glasses not be broken?_

It took a few minutes for Klavier to get a reply. The screen on his phone dimmed for a second, then the phone buzzed and the screen lit up brightly in the dark room. Klavier laid down on his back and grabbed the phone, holding it above his head to read Daryan's text.

_Daryan: That sounds really serious. Were all of his injuries around the head?_

Klavier managed to drop the phone on his face before replying.

_Klavier: Yes._

_Daryan: And his glasses were completely intact?_

_Klavier: Yes._

Klavier wondered what Daryan was doing - was he thinking long and hard about the issue? He played with a piece of his hair, then decided to add in what his brother had told him.

_Klavier: When I asked him why he was beaten up, he said he was learning how things are. I already told you the kind of work that my father used to do. I'm worried that my brother is not getting the same treatment as my father. Kristoph is not cut out for this work._

The reply was almost immediate.

_Daryan: That sounds really suspicious. And why do you say Kristoph isn't cut out for that kind of work? Kristoph is big and menacing like your dad was. He seems perfect. Why did he tell you he was learning how things are?_

_Klavier: I think it was a beginner's process, perhaps. He was crazy, mister gambino said he was drunk. I've never seen Kristoph get drunk but it was similar to the way people on television get drunk. It was also how my father was when he drank._

_Daryan: So Kristoph wasn't sad or anything? He wasn't crying about lost love or home or anything?_

Klavier had to think for a few minutes. Kristoph was definitely not sad, but he definitely wasn't happy either. The only word he could think of was "crazy."

_Klavier: No, he wasn't sad. He would mumble to himself and his eyesight was far away, as if he wasn't there in the room with me. I had to grab him and yell before he would acknowledge me, and then he only said he was learning the way things are and that he would be my hero. I don't understand what he meant. Why do I need a hero? I don't need a hero._

_Daryan: Sounds like he was drugged. And I hate to break it to you, Klav, but you really do. You need someone to get you out of that shitty household. This isn't any way to live._

At that last message, Klavier felt a burning anger run through him. It wasn't Daryan's choice to tell him how his life should be. He shot back a menacing reply.

_Klavier: I don't need anyone telling me how to live my life or how good or bad my family is. I can handle it on my own, thanks._

_Daryan: Cmon man, you know I didn't mean it like that._

_Klavier: I'm going to bed. Good night._

With that, Klavier shut off his phone, plugged it up to charge, and laid on his bed in his sleepwear. He felt a few tears coming to his eyes as he laid and thought to himself, _This isn't fair._ He wiped away the tears and rolled over to stare at his clock. It was ten now. Although he wasn't tired, Klavier wanted to sleep - he wanted to sleep so badly. The memories of Papa coming home covered in blood were coming back to him, the nights when Papa would drink and fall asleep on the couch, those seemed like Papa's best nights of sleep.

Klavier then decided something that he knew Kristoph probably would've forbidden if he'd been awake and aware: he decided to drink one of Kristoph's beers. He'd never had alcohol in his life, and Kristoph was very strict about what Klavier could or couldn't eat or drink. Kristoph was setting Klavier up to be some kind of winning race horse or something - nothing but fruits and vegetables and lean meats. No snack food entered the house unless Klavier snuck it in. His mind wandered back to the trail mix he'd devoured that afternoon, what Kristoph would say when he saw the chocolate pieces in it. It was nothing less than perfection when it came to Kristoph.

Klavier was careful to be quiet when going down the stairs. The house was old and despite the stairs being carpeted, they still creaked and moaned if you stepped on the wrong spot. Unsure of when the drugs or alcohol or whatever was in Kristoph would wear off, he didn't want to disturb Kristoph.

The cool air from the fridge was unsettling against his warm skin. The package of beer on the bottom shelf called his name. Picking one up and examining the label, he grabbed the bottle opener from the silverware drawer and opened it. First, he smelled the scent coming from the bottle - bitter, but in a good way. He swirled it around a few times, then took his first drink.

He gagged - bitter, but not in a good way. Klavier wondered why the hell adults liked alcohol if it all tasted like shit as he took another swig. Pondering for a few seconds, wondering when he'd start to feel the effects, he drank again, and god did it taste terrible. It burned on the way down his throat, but left a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a few minutes of aftertaste, Klavier decided it would be best to just knock it all down. In a bottoms-up motion, he drained the bottle, and set it quietly in the trash. He knew he could convince Kristoph that he drank one before going to bed.

As he tip-toed up the stairs, he began to feel a fog come over his brain and a tingling in his fingers. Klavier smiled. This was the happiness Papa and the drunk people on the television felt. This was something he could get used to.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope everyone is enjoying what I have to write so far. As always, feedback is incredibly appreciated. I'm hoping to have a little more time to write in the upcoming weeks, so that means I may be able to squeeze in another chapter or two before I get busy again. We'll see. Thanks for reading!


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